She swallowed the bit of cracker. “Would you stop? This is silly.”
His eyebrow went up again. “Bull’s-eye. You’re upset because I said you looked beautiful.”
Carly trailed nervous fingers over the chenille spread. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her that way. “I don’t like it when you pay me compliments. That’s all.”
“I see.” Another silence settled over them, which he finally broke by asking, “Would you care to tell me why?” When she didn’t answer, he fired a second question. “Does it make you nervous, knowing I think you’re beautiful?”
She didn’t want to discuss this, but she could see he wouldn’t let it drop. “I just feel uncomfortable when you say things I know you don’t mean.”
“What makes you think I don’t mean it?”
The air in the room suddenly seemed too thin to breathe. How could she answer that question? She preferred not to tell him that before he’d come along, no other man had ever given her a second look. Carly sat up, feeling an urgent need to get away from him. Her head went dizzy.
“Whoa.” Hank caught her by the shoulders. “If you don’t lie still, you’re liable to wind up with your pretty little head poked in the wastebasket again.”
“Would you stop?” she cried, even as he pressed her back against the pillow.
“What’d I say now?”
“My ‘pretty little head.’ It’s not little, for starters, and it’s definitely not pretty. I’m not pretty. I’ve never been pretty. I don’t, therefore, want to be told I’m pretty. Is that clear?”
He kept his hands at her shoulders, preventing her from sitting up again. “Just calm down. I don’t want you getting sick.” His grip gentled, and he lightly massaged her skin through the long-sleeved gown. “That’s obviously a sore spot. I’m sorry I said it. We’ll discuss it later. Okay?”
“I don’t want to discuss it later. Just don’t say it.” Looking up at his dark face, she remembered him asking, Have I mentioned that you’re gorgeous? And, oh, God, she’d believed him. She didn’t know why that hurt so much, only that it did—like dull knives, slicing at her heart. “Just don’t say it.”
He released her and drew back, running a hand over his hair, which had been mussed by his hat and lay in tousled waves over his forehead. She expected him to argue, making heartfelt avowals that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, which she would have known was a lie. Instead, he grinned and asked, “Are we having our first scrap?”
The question caught her by surprise. “What?”
“Language barrier again? ‘Scrap.’ In city English, that translates to spat, quarrel, wrangle, fight, skirmish, tiff. You ever call it a ‘set-to’ up in Portland?”
He made her want to smile, which only irritated her more. “Set-to isn’t a term we use often in Portland, but I’m perfectly aware of what scrap means.”
“Good. If you’re gonna do it, you ought to have the definition down pat.”
“I have no intention of scrapping with you.”
“You start trying to tell me what I can say, and we’re going to scrap, darlin’. No two ways around it.”
“I’m not trying to tell you what you can say.”
“You aren’t?”
“No. I just don’t appreciate your saying things I know you don’t mean, and I’m sure you don’t really think I’m beautiful.”
“Well, hell.” He rubbed beside his nose. “Now you’re telling me what I can think? I’ve married a bossy woman.”
Carly flung an arm over her eyes. Her heart hurt when she looked at him. How was it possible to feel that way and want to laugh at the same time? “Just go away. I want to sleep now.”
“I’m your official pop and cracker dispenser. I’m not going anywhere until five of these crackers are down the hatch.”
She held out her hand for the remaining crackers. “Fine. Give them to me, and I’ll eat them. I don’t need you sitting in attendance.”
“My mom says you have to eat them slowly. I’ll stay if it’s all the same to you.”
“It isn’t all the same to me. I want you to go away.”
“That’s not in our contract.”
She lowered her arm to stare at him. “In our what?”
He gestured at the folded paper on the nightstand. “Our contract. It says I won’t press you for sex, and it says I won’t change my mind and sue for custody of our child. But there’s not one damned word in there about you being able to tell me where to go.” He flashed her a slow grin. “Trust me to know. If that had been one of your stipulations, I never would’ve signed it. I know exactly where you’d send me.” He paused. “Not saying I’d blame you.”
Carly smiled in spite of herself. Then she jumped half out of her skin when he touched a fingertip to the corner of her mouth. “There it is, that fabulous smile. Notice I didn’t say beautiful. I’m nothing if not cooperative.”
“I want to sleep now.”
“We covered that. You’ve only had one bite of the third cracker.”
“You’re impossible.”
“We’ve covered that, too. I think we need some new subject matter. How’s about if I tell you about the ranch?”
He didn’t wait for her assent before he launched into a soothing monologue, describing the Lazy J. He began by telling her about the fire that had destroyed the main house shortly after Jake’s marriage to Molly. Then he went on to describe the reconstruction process, how he and Jake had used timber from their own property for the two-story log home that Jake and Molly lived in now.
“I thought logs had to be dried before you could use them,” she said drowsily.
“They should be. We hired an outfit to kiln dry ours.”
He broke off to give her another sip of soda, urged her to take a bite of cracker, and then began talking again, telling her about the vast expanses of land that comprised the Lazy J.
Carly grew drowsier while he talked, soothed by the deep, silky timbre of his voice. He told her about their hired hand, Shorty, a squat, sandy-haired little man whose best friend in the world was an ugly mongrel dog named Bart who’d bite the hand that fed him. Then he told her about Levi, a wiry fellow with twinkling green eyes, a thick southern drawl, and a battered old pickup dubbed Mandy, which he held together with coat hangers and baling wire.
In between descriptions, he lifted her head to give her sips of soda and push crackers at her face. Soon five crackers were gone, and she felt so sleepy she could barely hold her eyes open.
“You love them, don’t you?” she asked groggily.
“Crackers?”
Struggling to keep her eyes open, she laughed softly and said, “No. Shorty and Levi.”
“Oh, them.” He shrugged and massaged the back of his neck. “Love’s a strong word. Shorty’s a little cantankerous, and Levi, well, he’s so set in his ways he’s flat irritating, but they’re both loyal to a fault.”
He went on to tell her about Danno, a lanky young fellow with a mop of red hair and more freckles than brains, whose appetite was so voracious that he could eat the south end of a northbound jackass.
“The south end of a what?” she asked, slurring the words.
He grinned. “Sorry. I need to clean up my language now that I’ve got a wife. A male donkey.” At her bewildered look, his grin widened. “If a donkey’s heading north and you eat its south end, which part will you sink your teeth into?”
Carly shook her head. “Its rump, I imagine. You’ll have to forgive me for being slow on the uptake. That’s a visual. I’ve never seen a jackass, never mind the south end of one.”
“You haven’t?” A twinkle lit up his eyes. “Seems to me, darlin’, that you’ve had plenty of truck with one jackass.” His smile faded, and he fussed with the covers. Then he changed the subject by asking, “How’s the belly?”
Carly was still stuck on the “jackass” part of the exchange. He was clearly referring to himself, leading her to believe he regretted his behavior that night at
Chaps. Yet, to her recollection, he’d never really apologized except to say that he wished he could do it all over again, getting it right the next time.
“I’m feeling better,” she finally replied.
“That’s good. The Coulter remedy must be working.”
He handed her another cracker and launched into stories about everyday life on a ranch. As interested as Carly was, she found it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open. At some point, the deep, husky drone of his voice moved away from her, and she slipped off into an exhausted sleep.
Hank fell quiet and studied his sleeping wife. Her hair had dried in a fan across the pillow. In the dim light, the rippling strands gleamed like molten gold touched with silver. Her long eyelashes cast spider etchings on her pale cheeks. Her soft mouth looked temptingly kissable.
Not beautiful? Dear God, when had he ever said or done anything to make her believe that? Getting her pregnant had been a shooting offense. Failing to comfort her afterward should have earned him a flogging before the bullet was lodged in his brain. But to make her believe she was somehow less than perfect?
That was unforgivable.
She was a puzzle. Definitely like no other woman he’d ever met, not that he was complaining. He just didn’t know how to handle her. He spent half his time watching every word he said, afraid of offending or frightening her. The other half of the time, he was trying to take his foot out of his mouth.
He sighed and flexed his shoulders, weary enough to drift off to sleep himself. He thought longingly of the bed that awaited him in the back bedroom. Never mind that it was also too short and his feet hung over the end. Anything would feel good right now. He just hesitated to leave Carly for fear she might need him. The cabin’s interior walls were made of logs, which absorbed sound. Sleeping in the back room, he might not hear if she called out.
He decided to lie beside her on top of the covers. The heat from the fire would keep him warm, and he’d be close at hand if she woke up. Just for a while, he assured himself, turning off the lamp. As he stretched out beside her, he stuck his boots through openings in the brass footboard to straighten his legs. No matter. He’d slept in horse stalls too many times to be fussy.
He fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Sometime later, Carly awakened to discover Hank beside her. The room was cold, and he’d gravitated toward her. In a shaft of moonlight coming through the window, his dark face looked almost boyish in sleep, his firm mouth gone lax, the ridge of muscle that always delineated his cheek no longer in evidence.
Carly wasn’t sure how she felt about sharing a bed with him. What if he got friendly in his sleep? She considered jabbing him. But it was late and she hated to wake him. With a sigh, she flipped her side of the bedspread over him. As she tucked the chenille under his chin, he muttered something and stirred. Then he stared blankly at her for several seconds.
When recognition came, he grinned sleepily and said, “Hey, Charlie.” Then he fell asleep again.
Carly hugged her pillow, staring at his face. Charlie. He hadn’t been lying to her, she realized. That night at the bar, he actually hadn’t gotten her name right, despite the fact that she’d corrected him twice. When he’d told her about putting out feelers to find her, she hadn’t really believed him. Now she had reason to wonder if he hadn’t been telling the truth.
It changed nothing. She’d still been one in a long line of conquests—just another woman he’d scored with on a Friday night. But in an odd way, it made her feel better, knowing he hadn’t forgotten her immediately afterward.
As she drifted back to sleep, Carly hugged that realization to her heart.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning Hank slipped from bed at the first light of dawn, grabbed a shower, and quietly exited the bathroom. Finger-combing his damp hair, he stood by the bed to gaze down at Carly. She slept deeply, her face still pale from the ravages of last night’s nausea. Even so, she was beautiful, one hand daintily unfurled on the pillow. He wanted to lean down and wake her with a kiss.
Madness. She wasn’t ready for that, and until she was, he’d sworn to abide by a strict, hands-off policy. After creeping from the bedroom, he went to the kitchen to make coffee. Minutes later, he left the house with a steaming mug, taking his first sip after he cleared the porch. Ah. He gazed across the ranch, enjoying the pinkish hue that bathed the landscape. Soon the sun would be up, and golden shafts of light would gild the towering trees that bordered the fields.
Hank set off for the stables. After morning chores, he’d drive into town to get Carly’s things. Before the wedding, she’d packed, and the boxes at the apartment awaited transport. Because she’d been so sick last night, he hated to make her go with him. He’d just drive over by himself. If Bess had left for work when he got there, he had Carly’s key. He hoped to be back before Carly awakened for breakfast
Hank got home at twenty of eight. He had just put the first box in the living room when Carly emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel.
“Oh!” she squeaked, and promptly ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door with a loud thunk.
“I’m going back out for another box. You can dash for cover while I’m gone.”
The door cracked open, and one blue eye peered out at him. Still grinning, Hank exited the house. When he returned with another load, he decided to leave off carrying in boxes to get her breakfast on the table.
When she emerged minutes later, looking pretty as a picture in blue jeans and a pink top, Hank was sitting at the table, enjoying his mug of coffee.
“Breakfast’s ready.”
“Oh. I, um—mostly I don’t eat regular food this early in the day.”
He inclined his head at the table. “Trust me, darlin’, nothing about this breakfast is regular. Sauerkraut straight from the jar, Brussels sprouts, and chocolate milk. How’s that for memory.”
She peered at the bowls, smiling hesitantly. “You didn’t need to do this.”
Hank thrust out a boot to nudge a chair. “Yeah, well, I did do it, so sit down and eat.”
As she took a seat, he noticed that she’d slicked her hair back into a ponytail. He liked it better down. Seemed a shame to hide all those pretty curls. He settled back to study her. All his life, he’d heard the phrase, “flawless ivory complexion,” but had never actually seen one. Except for the broken capillaries on her eyelids, Carly’s oval countenance was without blemish, her skin as pale and smooth as newly risen cream.
He’d never tire of looking at her. Her nose was small and straight, her cheekbones fragile, her honey-gold brows gently arched over wide, expressive eyes. Not beautiful? Every time he recalled her saying that, his heart hurt. Normally, he’d take such a comment with a grain of salt, figuring the woman was fishing for a compliment. Most women knew if they were beautiful. But Carly was different. When she looked in the mirror, she might not see what everyone else did—an exquisitely lovely young woman with eyes a man could get lost in.
He expected her to devour the food. Instead she laid the paper napkin over her lap, then fussed and fiddled, looking so self-conscious that he almost left the table. But, no, he decided. The sooner she relaxed around him, the better. He’d be doing her no favor if he walked wide circles around her.
“I didn’t add butter or salt to the sprouts,” he warned.
She pushed at them with a fork. “Good. I don’t put anything on them.”
When she first began eating, she took dainty bites, frequently touching the napkin to her lips. After a minute, though, the cravings got the best of her, and she began shoving huge mounds of sauerkraut into her mouth, making soft sounds of ecstasy as she chewed.
Hank found himself wishing she’d go after him like that. Then he remembered she had once—and he’d blown it.
She stopped chewing suddenly and fixed him with huge, luminous blue eyes. “What?” she asked.
He nudged his hat back. “Nothing. You just make that look g
ood.”
She speared a Brussels sprout with her fork and offered it to him.
“No thanks. Of a mornin’, I stick to offerings from Over Easy and Scrambled.”
“Pardon?”
“Our hens. We named ’em after egg dishes. Scrambled, Sunny-Side-Up, Meringue.” He shrugged. “Dumb, huh? Molly’s a bleeding heart. When the hens stop laying, they get put out to pasture like horses. The only time I get fried chicken is if one drops over dead from a coronary.”
She eyed him bewilderedly. “You don’t wring their necks?”
“Not without getting on her shit list. Every once in a while, I flap my arms and wave my hat, trying to scare one to death. Never works.”
She popped the sprout into her mouth. A blissful expression moved over her face as she chewed and swallowed. Gulps of chocolate milk followed. She dabbed the mustache from her upper lip and said, “This is fabulous. Thank you for thinking of it. It’s my morning sickness cure.”
“Your cure?” Hank rocked back on the chair and propped a boot on one knee. “You sure it’s not the cause?”
Her cheek was already puffed out with another Brussels sprout. “Mm.”
He chuckled and took another sip of black coffee. Normally he breakfasted at the main house on more conventional foods. Molly had fits about the way the new cook fed the crew, convinced that everyone’s cholesterol would shoot off the chart. If that proved true, Hank figured he’d die a happy man.
“You aren’t a health-food nut, are you, Carly?” he couldn’t resist asking.
She shot him a shy glance. “I like to eat healthful foods, but I’m not fanatical about it.”